


The days have gone down in the west.

by haliawestron



Series: Helm and Hauberk [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 18:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21285941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haliawestron/pseuds/haliawestron
Summary: "In his eyes was the hunted look of a beast seeing some gap in the ring of his enemies. He licked his lips with a long pale tongue."Son of Gálmód, also called 'Worm' and 'Wormtongue'.Grima was never watching Eowyn, too cold, too proud, too frozen. Her golden brother was warmth and sunlight and the wild winds, everything that Grima was not, everything Grima hated, everything Grima craved.
Relationships: Eomer/Grima
Series: Helm and Hauberk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534427
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

I leave the woman standing there against the wall. She is white-faced and trembling and I wonder again at the foolish complacency that leads people to say  
“you can’t do that”  
when what they actually mean is  
“please don’t do that”. 

She used those words and seemed unable to grasp that it was not any particular cruelty or malice towards her and her husband, which had led to this. In fact, she seemed to find that worse somehow, as if a personal grudge would have been more acceptable than the simple reality that they threatened to disrupt my plans.

She will do as I say now however, it took only a few words to convince her. They say there is nothing to match the fury of a woman protecting her young. There is also nothing she will not do and that includes betrayal of her people in order to keep her man and young ones alive and well. She would light the torches to burn Meduseld herself if I ordered it. She need not do anything so drastic or obvious though, and that makes it easier for her. All I require is that she persuades her husband not to speak of what he saw when he so foolishly rode towards Isengard.

It might have been more difficult if he had actually had the courage to ride closer still, to see inside the outer circle. But, like many of the riders here, his vaunted courage and heroics deserted him when he was actually required to do something that would not be greeted with horns blowing and banners flying. He saw only that the outer circle was bare, the trees torn down. Suspicious but not yet dangerous. Still, it was best not to let news of this come to Eomer or Theodred’s ears. Whilst my master’s hold on Theoden is too secure for anything short of a miracle to rouse him, his son and nephew still hold far too great a following. Now is not the time for Rohan to fall. A little longer to confuse and weaken, a little longer in which to have Theodred and Eomer disappear, or at the least lose their support and standing, and then, Rohan would be Saruman’s.

I am lost in my thoughts as I hurry back to the main halls of Meduseld. I do not look around me, at this time of night, and in the depths of winter. I do not expect anyone else to be present here. That proves to be my first mistake, the second is assuming that the woman would have the sense to leave as swiftly as I did when we concluded our bargain. I slip in through one of the lower doors, avoiding the main entrance as I usually do. I see no need at any time to broadcast my comings and goings to all in the hall. And like much of my work that is carried out at night, it is better if no one should question my leaving the king's side.

I have only gone two or three steps inside and am just shaking off the rain form my hood and cloak when I realise that someone is has moved out of the shadows in the corridor to stand in front of me. I sigh when I realise who it is.

“Well Eomer, what are you doing sneaking around in the dark?”

He is taken aback, obviously he had intended to use that line on me. He recovers himself quickly though I will give him credit for that.

“I need give no man here explanations for what I do, least of all a snake like you wormtongue”

“No,” I let the word stretch out as if considering its every nuance; “no I suppose you need not, after all, you can hardly be doing anything,….”  
*Unlawful* he thinks  
“important,” I say.

Ah, there it is, the startled flinch, really it is almost too easy. I smile at him, knowing that like all my smiles it will look like a sneer, and smoothly move to step past him. Unfortunately this time it is I who receive a shock, instead of scowling, muttering, and then stepping out of my way as if I carried a disease, he stays put and even puts out a hand to stop me.

“What were you doing by the storehouses Wormtongue?” so the young fool spotted me, did he.

“Nothing, important” I say giving the same stress to the word important as I had earlier. “Merely checking the grain supplies. Of course, such matters would escape a warriors notice being too petty for your concern, but it has been a hard winter.”

I let my voice slip from mocking to smooth. He will still sense the condescension, but everything I say will seem reasonable, in fact will be reasonable. He will feel a fool for having challenged me at all. “Yes a hard winter, I feared for our people my lord Eomer, it will be several months before we are able to restock our stores, so I must ensure what we have is not wasted.”

“Why must you do this, is there not anything within these walls you do not meddle in?”

*Fool, if you give me an opening like that one you have lost this battle of wits before you began.*

I open my eyes wide and feign a puzzled and put upon air, “But lord Eomer, who else is there to do this? Would you have the people starve?”  
It is then when I am sure that I have won this round that my mistakes bear fruit.

“Liar” he snarls. Suddenly I find myself trapped against the wall, him looming over me as he growls. “I saw you there, and I saw that poor woman you left behind, what did you do to her Wormtongue?”

I cannot help it, I laugh, a bitter thing but laughter nonetheless. He actually believes that I….

“You laugh? I wonder if you will still laugh when her husband kills you in the sight of all as you deserve”

“My dear Eomer, not even you can believe that I took that woman against her will.”

He misunderstands, “Are you trying to tell me she was willing” his voice breaks incredulously “that any woman would…….”

I interrupt him “………….that any woman would choose to lie with me? No, I do not ask you to believe that” I finish and some of the bitterness that gnaws at me shows in my voice. “But did you see any sign of force on her? Do you see scratches, bruises on me? Surely if an honourable woman, the wife of one of your riders, was approached by such as me she would not let me touch her without some protest.” My voice drips sarcasm and he seems confused now. But like a true warrior, he does not stop to think for long.

“You lie, you did something to her and I will find out what”

The wall is digging into my shoulders now, I can’t go any further back. I wonder if he will kill me or merely beat me senseless. After all, he must have been praying to whatever gods he holds dear for an opportunity like this one. Despite my protests, if he were to claim he found me molesting that woman I doubt there would be any who believed otherwise, especially if I was dead. The same gods that love to watch and mock me, listen to the prayers of men like him.

He follows me and a brief mad hysteria rises in me at the thought that this is perhaps the closest that any rider in these halls has let themselves come to me. All except mad, sad Theoden pull themselves away when I walk past; mothers tug their children aside. There are few who can walk through these halls unhindered but wherever I walk a path opens for me. It is power of a sort. But in his righteous anger this young whelp has me trapped against the wall. I wonder if he realises this, if he realises that in grasping my arm, in shaking me to force answers from me he is offering me the only human touch I have had in the years I have served here.

“You disgust me, creeping around, like some pallid wretch who never sees the light of day. Why my uncle allows such as you to pollute his halls, to give him counsel, faugh.”

His scorn pours over me, but that is something I am well used to here. I cannot pass up the opportunity to mock him, to hit at his weakest points.

“Perhaps, my dear Eomer, your uncle, in his wisdom has learnt that better counsel can be gained from those who watch and learn than those who find their wisdom only in a horses stride”

“Watch? Spy more like. Is that what you do here? Aye I warrant you’ll not have touched her or any other, you’ve not the courage for it have you worm? But you would watch would you not, sneak behind walls, listen at keyholes. Is that how you find your pleasure?”

Some bitter impulse prompts me to sneer back at him; “Oh I doubt that one such as you, Eomer son of Rohan could comprehend of my pleasures.”

He does not quite understand but he senses an insult. I could almost laugh again, at his bullish reaction to a sneering tone no matter what the words. Amusing to bait him, but the sudden pain in my head drives away the laughter. He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls back hard so that I am forced to stare directly into his eyes. Oh yes he is angry now.

“Listen to me worm, if I find you watching any of the riders’ women…. If I hear even a rumour that you have …” His voice runs, out obviously the poor, naïve, honourable fool cannot bring himself even to voice the thought that I might touch another living being.

“I can assure you Eomer, I would gain no pleasure from watching any of your women.”

His closeness must have overwhelmed my senses, for I do not quite manage to avoid the faint stress on the word women. And for once his brain must have been working at something approximating normal speed for he hears it. His eyes narrow and he steps closer still.

“As much as touch one of my riders worm, and I will have your head”

*Ah yes, that is where your real concern lies does it not Eomer, not the pitiful wretches that your women so quickly become but the strong brave riders you lead. And none are so golden, so brave, so strong as you Eomer, third Marshall of the Riddermark.*

He draws a breath in sharply, and I wonder if perhaps I had said those last thoughts aloud. Blood stains my cheeks ugly red, and then as he does not move away it pools in my groin, rushing there so swiftly I feel light headed. He steps closer and places his other hand around my throat, the rough leather of the gauntlet rasps across my white skin. He could kill me easily here, like this, and as if hearing my thoughts his hand tightens ever so slightly.

Cold sweat drips down my back in fear but at the same time I feel myself grow even harder. His thigh is pressed against me trapping me against the wall and he must feel my arousal. Bitter shame combines with the fear and I shift slightly in his grasp seeking a way to escape, half hoping to provoke him into violence. I would prefer that to his scorn. But close as we are I can no more escape the evidence of his arousal than he can mine. For a long moment my mind goes blank, all I am aware of is the heat between my legs, the almost painful pulsing of my blood through my engorged cock. He shifts uncomfortably and brushes against me, I do not think, I merely act and before he can draw breath my hands have slid between us, cupping him.

His grip on my throat is more painful, but still not enough to choke me. I am shivering as I undo the laces to his breeches, I hear him gasp as I draw him out, my long pallid fingers flickering against his solid warmth.

I do not let our eyes meet as I stroke and pull. Only once do I steal a glance up at him from beneath my heavy lids, his head is thrown back, his eyes closed. The look on his face is between pleasure and pain and I look down again quickly somehow shamed to have seen him like this. His hand tangles in my hair, a constant pressure against my scalp.

His movements grew harsher, more violent and ragged. He thrusts urgently into my hand, his grip on my hair yanking my head back. Tears are streaming down my face from the sharp pain in my scalp and the dull ache in my shoulder from the rough wall. I can barely breathe or move. All I can do is let him ride my hand. It is hot, slick with sweat or perhaps that is him, I can no longer tell. It takes most of my willpower to force my muscles to obey me, to reach past the pain in my head and tighten my grip, and I am rewarded for the effort.

Suddenly all space between our bodies is gone and he slams into me, his hands fall from my scalp to my shoulders, digging into my thin frame under the rich velvets. My hand is crushed between us, my grip fails, but he no longer seems to care. Once, twice, his tall powerful form crashes into mine and the groan he gives, as his seed spills over my hand, my robe, sounds like an animal in pain.

I should have pulled away then and left him.  
I should have straightened my robes and sneered at him for losing control.  
I should have mocked the proud warrior for taking pleasure from the touch of a snake.  
I should have taken advantage of his weakness to slip a knife into his ribs.  
I should have opened one of the rings my master had gifted me and smeared poison into his open mouth.

I could have done any of these things but I did none of them.

I close my eyes, lean my head back against the wall, and wait for my frantic heart to slow. His forehead rests against the wall as he pants for breath; slowly he recovers himself and pulls away. I hear the faint sound of cloth and leather and know he is restoring his appearance to that befitting the kings’ precious nephew, the bright young god of his people. *It wouldn’t do would it, my golden Eomer, for your men to find you rutting in the corridor. To find you allowing yourself to be touched by the snake. Oh yes, I know what they call me, I’ve heard, and been called worse names, all things considered.*

I wonder if it would make any difference now if I did what I should have done at first, or would he hit me all the harder if I mocked him now. I open my eyes and I know it is too late, too late to paste my usual sneer back onto my face, too late to pretend. He is not looking at me, he is looking at my robes and if he had been too lost in his own sensations to notice before, now he knows. Knows that when his final thrusts slammed our bodies together, the merest touch of his thigh against my groin had sent me, gasping and shivering like some clumsy fish, over the edge. I make some attempt to draw myself up, and if I had it in me I would try for dignity as I wait for the blow that will surely fall. But dignity is something for the blind, foolish and noble, none of which I am, and so I merely wait.

I am still waiting as he turns and strides away from me, and I do not know if it is relief or disappointment that brings me to my knees there in the corridor alone.


	2. Behind the Hills Into Shadow.

It is late; and today, for whatever reason, Theoden has been querulous, not questioning in the way his warriors might want him to be but more like a small child wishing attention. I have seen this in the very old before now; it would seem that my masters' possession has hastened Theoden mind towards senility and so now when he does drift up from his drug and magic-induced torpor he reverts to childhood. The light flickers in the small room I have made my own. I have a bedchamber and an ‘official’ office as the kings' advisor but this is where I come to do my real work. It is the one place within these walls where I feel relatively safe. The thugs who follow me for little more than a promise of gold and violence do not come here and I would wager that most others do not even remember the existence of this little room tucked away in a quiet corner.

I shuffle the papers and maps I have been poring over into neat pile, there is little more I can do for now. Those Eodreds which I control or which I can fool, I have scattered across the mark. The others, those loyal to Eomer, Theodred and Elfhelm I have distracted as best I can. Unfortunately, Theoden's weakness, the very thing that makes it easier for me to control some Eodreds, makes it easier also for Eomer and Theodred to take greater control of the men they led. In truth, there is no kingdom of Rohan now, just an uneasy collection of farmers and riders most owing loyalty only to their village or Eodred leader.

Rohan needs a king and a strong one but whilst Theoden lives still it will have none. My masters’ greatest fear is that Theodred will heed the urgings of his men and his cousins and take the throne. None would withstand him, and with the young golden Eomer at his side he would easily win approval for his actions.

I move onto my other work, more legitimate this, and it normally gives me a sense of achievement that is sweeter than the bitter satisfaction gained from my actions to confuse and divide the Rohirrim. There are many things to be done, my comment to Eomer so many days ago had been true. Who else was there to do this now? Eomer and Theodred care little for such things and although Eowyn has the sharpness of mind capable of managing the business of the country her thoughts still yearn toward the glory that her brother and cousin revel in.

So late at night when no doubt I am expected to be concocting poisons or whispering vicious lies and rumours into Theodens ear I am instead managing grain shipments, land allocations and trading.

My task here is made harder by the need to keep Rohan on the brink of starvation but not yet to allow it to fail. It is becoming more difficult to strike the balance that is needed to steadily weaken Rohan but not destroy it. Saruman is not yet ready for that, and he knows as well as I that these people would not let themselves be destroyed so easily. Take away most of what a man has and he will try to hold onto what is left, even if that means turning away from others. Take away everything a man has and he will turn and fight. We are not ready for Rohan to fight, not yet, not whilst more than half the riders are still outside my control.

After a half hour I push the papers away, my mind is not working as it should. The writing dances before my eyes and my head aches abominably. It is long past midnight and for a moment I allow myself the indulgence of closing my eyes. Almost as soon as I do so I find images of Eomer dancing behind my lids. I sigh, is it not enough that he plagues my sleep several nights of every week? Now he interferes with my ability to work.  
He has not referred to what passed between us that cold winter night, neither in word or look. During the day I am grateful for his apparent ability to dismiss and forget the incident. At night however, I sometimes find myself wishing for him to show some sign of it. It gnaws at me that I can so easily be dismissed. I tell myself it is only that, but then when dawn comes and the evidence of my need is staining the sheets I shudder in shame and send a plea that Eomer will remain too busy to notice me for a while longer. For I know that in reality, it is fortunate that he forgets so easily, if he did not he might seek me out, seek to erase his shame by spilling my blood.

Suddenly the soft light I could see even through closed lids fails and I realise I have been plunged into darkness. I open my eyes cursing, the room feels colder without the light of the two candles and I fumble as I try to relight one of them. The sudden flare of tinder startles me and I shield my eyes trying to see who it is who has invaded my bolthole.

The candle is set down and I can finally see beyond its flame. Eomer stands on the other side of my desk, he looks tired and somehow unsure of himself.

I raise my eyebrows and drawl slowly, “well my lord have you finally come to flush the rat from his hole?”

“I did not even know this was your room, Wormtongue, I saw a light and came to investigate.” He says abruptly.

“Well then you have found my bolthole, and satisfied your curiosity.”

“What do you do here, I thought your rooms were far away from this section of the halls otherwise I would not….” he stops but his meaning is plain.

I cannot remember any time at which someone has entered my rooms, even the more ‘public’ office, willingly. He prowls round the room restlessly as I watch him from under half closed lids, he obviously would not have entered if he had known who was here but now he is here he seems unable to leave.

“Why are you here,” he repeats the question, coming to a stop close to me he leans over and looks at the papers on the table. “what are these, your plots and plans? is this why you sneak away here?”

I lean back pointedly putting some distance between us, Eomer growls and lets go of the papers to grab my robe, “oh no you don’t snake, you are staying right where I can see you until I know what it is you do here.”

I shrug and manage to dislodge his hands although he is still far too close for comfort. “Look all you like Eomer, I’m sure if you look long enough you’ll find some reason to mistrust me even more than you already do.”

He frowns at that and starts reading through the papers, he seems honestly surprised when he realises how innocuous they are. Either that or the idiot didn’t realise just what running a kingdom really entails, he probably thinks all the king has to do all day is sit on the throne and look regal, I think to myself with sneer. He catches the sneer and his temper flares again, for a wonder he seems to control it for once.

“Satisfied?” I ask hardly bothering to hide my weariness. I am weary in truth but Eomers’ nearness is sending a thread of warmth through my chilled body.

“So there is nothing here that dams you, I hardly expected you to keep records of your treachery. No worm I am hardly satisfied” he takes hold of my chin and lifts my face so I am staring directly into his eyes, “Not until you and your master are exposed and hunted down, and every hurt you have done to my people is repaid. Only then will I be – satisfied” he spits the last word out and I feel a tremor go through me, he feels it and something changes in his eyes, the fire of anger narrows to become a darker fire, more dangerous but the pounding of my pulse in my throat has little to do with fear.

His grip on my chin tightens, I know I should be fearful, but between weariness and the bitter warmth of arousal curling in my belly I can only wait. The chair scraping against the floor doesn’t even startle me, whatever I expect from him it is hardly gentle movements or soft words. I manage to keep my balance as he pushes my chair – and me in it - back and steps between it and the desk.

He smells of horses, leather and sweat; smells I despise, smells that surround me every day amongst these half barbarian horsemen. Here, in my cramped windowless chamber, the smell is overpowering, as is his nearness. His hands fall heavily onto my shoulders and for a long moment he holds me there, I cannot tear my eyes away from his and this seems to amuse him;

“You look more like a rabbit than a snake right now, a sneaky skinny rabbit.”

I try and think of a cutting reply but his eyes have dropped below my waist and I feel hot blood staining my cheeks an ugly red. He rakes me with a swift glance, there is contempt in his eyes, but below that there is lust. I see it and a small smile flickers across my face, he makes a sound like a growl low in his throat and suddenly the hands are pulling me forward, then pushing down so that I slide ungracefully from the chair.

The floor is stone and the cold strikes through my leggings and robes. But that I hardly notice as the evidence of his need and lust is now so close. It is easier somehow when I do not have to meet his glare, do not have to see the contempt and hate in those blue eyes, easier to reach out and place my palm over the hard bulge that is level with my eyes.

He swears harshly and slaps my hand away, for a moment I doubt the evidence of my own touch wondering if he means to slit my throat instead, my mind is hardly eased when he bends to pull a dagger from his high boot and holds it lightly against my neck.

“Just in case you had other things on your mind little worm.” He says mockingly.

I shiver at the cold steel but his other hand is tugging the laces of his leggings undone and the smell of lust, once his cock is freed, overpowers the other scents of him and overpowers all fear or reason on my part. His hand comes to rest on my shoulders again and he tugs me forward.

I need little urging. Even as part of my mind sneers at me, at him, for what we are doing, I have leant forward and taken him into my mouth.

He tastes of sweat and lust, a salty musky taste. He has little finis or perhaps he sees no reason to waste it on one such as me for his thrusts are fast and deep, deeper than I can easily cope with. I choke as his cock hits the back of my throat, he pulls back a little, not much but enough for me to catch my breath slightly and shift to a better position. I know he is doing this because he feels shamed by his lust, that this way he can convince himself it is about his power and my submission. He tells himself that he is using me and I tell myself I am using him, perhaps both of us lie.

It is over quickly. In other circumstances I might try and flatter myself that it was because of my skill – bitterly and harshly taught but well learnt nonetheless. However he gives me little chance for any demonstration. He is determined to use me as he wishes twisting my arms fiercely when I reach out to touch him, holding me in place, the dagger at the side of my neck effectively stopping any move I might make to draw back a little, to tease him and so prolong this.

So I cannot draw back when I feel his climax approaching, perhaps I am grateful for that, that he takes the choice away from me. His seed floods my mouth and I swallow it, bitterness lingering at the back of my throat.

For several moments the only sounds are his harsh breathing and my softer ragged pants for breath. They seem unnaturally loud in the still room, still and dimly lit, the single candle flame had flickered round us wildly earlier. Now, more than half burned down, it settles to a weak glow.

He re-sheaths his dagger and pushes my hands away from his thighs where they had rested. I slump down my legs aching from holding the half kneeling position. I hear him redoing his breeches, he is clumsy, pulling at the ties roughly. My hearing seems magnified or perhaps I am merely concentrating on that in an attempt to ignore the painful ache in my groin.

I try and pull away from the sounds, wishing he would leave, wishing he had never come here. I must succeed in blocking out awareness of him to some extent for I am startled when he drops heavily beside me on one knee. I flinch instinctively, scuttling back across the floor, and he makes a disgusted sound and takes my arm to pull me back. Without speaking he reaches out unerringly to touch me where I am so achingly hard, My eyes fly to his and I know that for this instant I look like nothing more than the frightened rabbit he compared me to earlier. He does not meet my gaze and after that first glance I cannot bear to look at him either for fear of what I will see.

Like him I spill quickly, it takes little more than a few pulls of his hand, harsh and quick. I bite my lip as I climax, it is the only way to keep myself from screaming at the pleasure that is so much more intense than anything I can bring myself to. My body is shaking as he wipes his hand roughly on my robes, staining them beyond repair.

It is a very long time after he leaves that I am able to get up and slink through the corridors to my rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to HEL for beta reading!  
HEL's work can be found at: http://carlajane.50megs.com/Hel/WarriorTitlePage.htm


	3. Where now the horse and the rider?

I watch from inside the halls as Eomer rides back, Theodred slumped in front of his saddle obviously badly wounded. I am disappointed, it had taken days to ensure that this ambush would be successful and the orders had been for both Theodred and his young cousin to be targeted. I slip away before I can be spotted and slink into the great hall, the injury to his son might prove enough to rouse Theoden and despite my master’s ever-increasing hold on him, there are times when I must wield my own skill in herbs to ensure that he remains biddable. I quickly pour wine from an old bottle. So simple this, a bottle obviously dusty and still corked – whatever may be suspected no one here has the wit to work out how an apparently unopened bottle could be poisoned. And of course, if anyone else drinks of it one dose will not do any harm except to make them feel slightly more drunk than usual and inclined to agree with anyone who speaks. It is the culmination of many doses and of Saruman’s will which has resulted in the decline of Theoden.

I actually have to hold the cup to his mouth now and he drools down my hand as I encourage him to drain the cup deeply, Wiping my hand on the hanging in disgust I move into the shadows watching and waiting to see what will occur now.

It is hardly more than a few minutes before Eomer strides into the hall to confront his Uncle. Eowyn follows him, I shift position slightly, she is the one I must watch. Saruman has a mind to keep her alive, perhaps as a puppet ruler, more likely for darker purposes. She is colder and sharper than her brother. His anger burns fierce and hot but it can be as quickly extinguished or turned aside through battle or drink. Hers, lacking in an outlet, builds like a glacier.

Although it appears there is one thing that can quench her white anger, her obvious grief for her cousin. Her voice holds tears as she tells Theoden his son is wounded, tears as much for the lack of response from his father as for Theodreds wounds.

Eomer’s words, on the other hand, are full of anger still, and he is prompted into openly stating his mistrust for Saruman. I step out for the shadows to challenge him, my voice a smooth mockery of his rougher angrier words.

Eomer keeps his eyes on his uncle as he drops his next blow; “Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will. Orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman.” Quite literally drops as he has managed to bring back proof of his words. I curse inwardly and for a moment I cannot think how to rescue the situation. The orcs were not supposed to bear the white hand openly yet against the Rohirrim, it is too soon unless something has occurred to change Saruman plans.

Thankfully Theoden’s random mutterings give me an excuse to turn to him, maintaining the fiction of a concerned councillor. I know as I add those last words that Eomer will be angered by them, but Theoden has shown himself remarkably easy to persuade that Eomer's tempers and questions are the mark of a discontented and ambitious youngster.

The accusation of warmongering may have been a little too sharp, a little less smooth than I would normally have been, but my mind was racing trying to work out what the next steps were. I realise that mistake swiftly though, being held up against a pillar by an angry warrior tends to focus the mind quite admirably. I lie though, it was not the threat of violence which focused my attention onto Eomer. The minute he turned and his eyes met mine, my grasp on the wider ramifications of this were lost.

*He seems oddly upset,* I muse idly, *did he really think that I would not seek every opportunity to oust him from favour? Did he begin to actually believe the pretence I had created?* I mock him for it but I should mock myself for his next demand catches me off guard.

“How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Grima? When all the men are dead you will take your share of the treasure?”

I could not bear to meet his eyes and let him see that what Saruman had promised me was nothing more than what every man longs for, his life and his freedom. Striving to look away from him led my eyes instead to his sister. I was glad then that my guards were so well trained for if I had had to meet that angry and betrayed stare for much longer I would have been unable to stop myself from correcting his misapprehension. Eowyn had never been the object of my lusts, too cold, too bitter. She reminded me too much of myself. A prisoner whose prison is made all the more secure by the fact that those surrounding you do not recognise your imprisonment.

It is quickly over, Eomer really was a naive fool. Naive enough to believe he would be able to lay hands on me here in the great hall and that I would not have my guards, my dogs, standing by. He gives me the excuse I have needed to dispose of him a well as his cousin.

I stand rubbing my throat, Eomer had represented freedom, heat, passion all things I had not felt for a long time. Which is no doubt why instead of having him killed I merely banished him. Watching his Eored ride out with him, knowing that he would find others to rally to his cause, and so create the valiant leader his people needed, I could not bring myself to regret that decision.

A pity I did not take that as warning enough that my instinct for self-preservation was sadly clouded, and left quietly whilst I still could. Although where I could have gone I do not know. So as I watched the first ripples of disaster mar the smooth surface of my masters' plans I waited, fearing to leave, fearing to stay.

The grey wizard came and it was then that I knew my master’s power was not all he would have had me believe. Foremost in the council, he had been once but this ragged wanderer had the power to cast Saruman out from Theoden’s mind. I have no pride, I would have fled then happily but being unable to reach the master in person they were disinclined to let the servant escape punishment.

Seeing Theoden renewed did not make me tremble but the strength and ferocity of Gandalfs companions is breathtaking, two of them manage to fell five times their number without weapons. Strength I feel all too personally when they take it upon themselves to throw me down the stairs to Medusald.

I suppose I should be grateful that the dark man intervened. In truth, I was not sure even then that a swift ending by the sword was not a preferable option. Once reprieved though instinct cut in. I could not hope to survive in Rohan now. My only hope was to return to Saruman and pray that he would be able to plot his way out of this disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the chapters that includes book lore rather than movie verse. In the books Theodred is older then Eomer, closer to Boromir in age (late thirties), however I have used the movie scenes for inspiration, I thought Grima slinking behind the columns in the thrown room was very reminiscent of Richard III and I wanted throughout this to play up the fact that while Eomer *looks* good on a horse, and Eowyn makes a proud stance about being independent and capable, neither one of them is particularly good at actually ruling. I always wondered who was actually running things in Rohan, and really the only answer is Grima. Which makes him intelligent, overworked and probably pig sick of posturing warriors.


	4. Dead Wood Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grima/Eomer implied, Grima/Orc implied
> 
> NC17/R for rape and torture mentions

It is so very cold inside Orthanc. The only warmth to be found is in the birthing pits in the great cavern below, and that is a place I will not go to willingly. Even if the alternative is to freeze here on this cold black stone. I had almost forgotten the cold, the empty rooms and echoing silence. Except now that silence is broken by the sounds of the pits, even with the armies gone the great pits are still working, Uruk Hai are still being birthed. It is a terrifying sight that, to see the great creatures claw and rend their way out of the slime. As each one arises they rip the life from the goblin slave who stands by. If any do not they are soon discarded, unfit for my master’s purposes.

I have been there only once, after the forces of the tower marched to Helm’s Deep. Saruman took me. The breeding cannot work on magic alone, they require flesh and blood, and whilst women are unnecessary for this travesty of birth, they require semen. For orcs are sterile, bred for one purpose only, their makers have taken from them the ability to reproduce and so taken from them any hope they might have.

Saruman has slaves aplenty who are used for this purpose, often their flesh and bone is used as well. Not so with me, only my life fluids, semen and blood. Only! They have so very many ways of making a man spill those fluids, and by nightfall, I had begun to wish that they would use me as they did the slaves, at least their misery was over within the day.

They did not; my master wanted me punished for my failures but not dead. When he returned for me I could barely stand And so hating him more fiercely than I had ever hated those I was sent to betray, I crawled after him on my hands and knees.

So when the great walking trees came, like creatures from some ancient myth, I did not mourn to see the pits flooded, the fires put out and the rabble swept away. I did not mourn for the slaves trapped below the deluge; their last moments filled with terror as they watched the inescapable rise of the water, or struck down by the weight of falling timbers. No do not mistake me, I did not think in terms of their deaths being a mercy, I know too well the terror of being trapped, helpless whilst your death approaches you. No, I spared no thought for them or any other there that day except myself. If Saruman’s anger at my failure in Edoras had been great, his rage when his stronghold was attacked, his works and arts of war destroyed, was beyond imagining. I fled as soon as I saw the ents approach, and so escaped the first fury. But there is no place in that tower where its master cannot find you and find me he did.

There were two long days before the lords of Rohan deigned to visit us in our shattered home. Two long days in which my master plotted and paced. He had not used the seeing stone, but his fear told him it would not be long before the dark lord called for him. And so his fear infected the tower. I think if I had had any knowledge of what was being bred here he would have offered me up to barad dur as a sacrifice. Unfortunately in this the wizards foresight failed him, he had made no secret to Sauron of the fact that he despised me almost as much as the rohirrim did, he knew that the blame for this disaster would fall on his shoulders. He could, however, amuse himself with me, and he did for several hours. But his frustration and terror clouded his inventiveness and he was reduced to allowing the tower orcs to beat me unconscious.

It offered me some small measure of amusement to know that he gained little from the exercise. He had to wait before I came around and could talk again before he could begin questioning me. He learnt little more, I had paid only slight attention to those accompanying Gandalf Greyhame, except to say their kindred’s I could tell him nothing.

I wondered at his interest in the companions of the wizard, an interest that was obvious when they finally came to us. Theoden and Gandalf led them, and it would appear that Eomer had not taken his banishment to heart for he was riding with them. Beside him were the ranger, elf and dwarf who had arrived with Gandalf at Meduseld. Whether this man was indeed the lost heir of Isildur I could not tell, he had shown a certain nobility I suppose by preventing Theoden from killing me and offering me a hand to rise. It also appeared obvious that for all his words previously Saruman thought he was something more than a ragged Ranger. Through the ensuing discussions with Gandalf, Saruman strove to see him, to sense who he was.

The grey wanderer stood before the doors hammering on them with his staff and calling for my master. I was pushed forward to open the window and call out, he could not even then resist the temptation then to mock me.

“Go and fetch Saruman, since you have become his footman, Grima Wormtongue! And do not waste our time.”

I didn’t have to fetch Saruman, he was standing behind me. This was all a ploy, all a game to show power even as his tower was besieged. If Saruman had answered Gandalf’s call himself it would have seemed that Gandalf could summon him easily. Which no doubt the grey wizard knew, and yet he still mocked me, the easy target instead of my master.

But then my master did deign to appear. I could see the magic of his voice working on those foolish men below even before they realised it. Theoden fell first, as was to be expected. Pitiful, weakened Theoden, his only hope now was to die gloriously in battle for his will had been sapped by my master over many long years, and he was no longer fit to rule. Of course now that Theodred was dead that would mean golden Eomer, apparently returned to his uncles loving arms, would inherit. I craned my neck for a glimpse, he looked tired and grim but was at first content to stand back and let Gandalf and Theoden conduct negotiations, which they outstandingly failed to do. When Theoden stood silent, pulled into the poisoned honey of my master’s voice it was Eomer who spoke up.

“Will you parley with this dealer in treachery and murder? Remember Theodred and the graves at Helms Deep.”

Oh yes, his anger and pride are still hot, Saruman cowed him, spitting words I had heard spilling from my own lips in the bitter watches of the night. “Slay who your king names as enemies, and be content. Meddle not in politics which you do not understand.”

Eomer’s defiance must have roused the failing spark in Theoden for he rejected Saruman’s offer, and then we saw where Saruman’s true interest lay, he mocked Theoden but turned to his own kind with softer words, he and the grey wizard spoke for some time. Ah yes, Gandalf offered Saruman sanctuary, and in the end he refused although he was I know, tempted.

The cracking of my master’s staff on the stone steps of Orthanc was more terrifying than the destruction of Isengard. In that moment many of his powers fled and I saw my fate as clearly as his. He would never allow himself or me to flee the tower, to take the hand Gandalf had held out to him. We would rot here until the servants of Barad Dur came for us and then we would pray that they had left us here to die in starvation and isolation. The figures below me turned to walk away and I laughed to myself, what hope had I anyway? Even if Saruman had taken the offer, it would not include me. No, it is far easier for these wise men, these kings, to forgive one who they thought of as an equal no matter how great and terrible his crimes. But to forgive one who merely served? They had nothing but contempt and loathing for me.

I do not know what strange impulse prompted me. Perhaps a desire to stave off the retribution of Barad Dur, a vain hope to buy time in which I might escape. Saruman had left me lying on the floor of the chamber of the seeing stone when he went to answer their calls and I had crept back to the balcony to watch them. I had half expected it to smash, I prayed that it would, that in its loss Saruman would lose the link with Barad Dur and so gain us a few more days of uneasy quiet. But perhaps a part of me long-buried was glad when it did not, when it rolled and fell into their hands. I had little time to ponder on my motives. Saruman knew it was me, after all even if there had been anyone else to suspect, Gandalf was not chary of handing me over.

“A parting shot from Master Wormtongue, I fancy, but ill aimed.”

“The aim was poor maybe because he could not make up his mind who he hated more you or Saruman,” replied the ranger.

Well, at least one person could see that I was hardly bound here by love and respect. I saw Eomer and the dark ranger look up as Saruman strode onto the balcony to shake me like a warg shakes its prey. Eomer even took a step forward but was restrained by Gandalf whose attention, predictably enough, was focused upon Saruman.

“Saruman I ask you for one last time. Your fortress is besieged, your works destroyed, your staff and powers broken and your last remaining item of power in the hands of those you have wronged. Will you not yield? You will find less mercy with Barad Dur than you will have with us.”

“There will be no mercy for anyone when the dark lord comes, Gandalf the grey. You fool yourself and these petty kinglets if you think so. Go, run as far and as fast as you can, but not even you will escape his wrath.” my master’s voice was no longer smooth and honeyed but harsh, shrill with fear and desperate madness.

I took my chance, if Gandalf had replied and held Saruman’s attention for a little longer I might have got further before he caught me again. Gandalf did not intend his words to have helped me of course; he even laughed as he saw my desperation, shrinking back from Saruman on the steps.

“Ah Saruman, what hope do you have? See even your servants betray you, but then I suspect his rewards are likely to be the same of yours” he turned away then.

I suppose that is the way of *good* wizards. It is acceptable to taunt and mock but not to stand and openly gloat as Saruman kicked his treacherous servant down the steps. His hand had caught me by the scruff of my neck but through a half-choked haze of fear and pain, I heard another voice.

“What of you Wormtongue, would you leave the tower and escape the wrath of Barad Dur?”

“Eomer be silent.”

I am unsure of who was most startled, the wizard, my master or myself. I even tried to twist around to see him and nearly strangled myself in the process. He strode forward then, suddenly unwilling to stand by and let old men make all the decisions.

“No, this is our foe not yours Gandalf. If you can offer safety to the betrayer of your kind, the wizard who created this horror,” he waved a hand at the smoking ruin of Isengard, “then I can offer safe passage to one who betrayed my people, his servant.”

“Safe passage?” Saruman spat, “Poor Theoden, your son dead and this fool replaces him? Wormtongue is a thief, a liar and a spy, horseman. Why would you let him go free? Or is this some unsubtle trick? Do you mean to have him in lieu of me for payment to your burned and broken people?”

Theoden seemed about to speak but Eomer’s younger voice overrode him. “I do not take payment from one man for another’s crimes wizard, and I do not speak to you but to Wormtongue. I offer safe passage out of Isengard, and freedom from revenge for his betrayal of my uncle.”

“Oh so fine, so noble," Saruman sneered, “and what of him when he leaves this tower? Where do you expect him to go? You may pat yourself on the back for your mercy towards a pathetic enemy but I doubt your people will feel the same. Oh no Wormtongue cannot leave, he has nowhere else to go, why else do you think he came crawling back to me so many times?”

He had let go of me as he sneered down at Eomer, but I could not bring myself to move. He was right, there was nowhere else I could go, no one who would accept me. Even if I could survive the harsh plains, and I had few illusions about my ability to live in the wilds, sooner or later I would be seen and hunted down by men who blamed me for the destruction of their homes and families.

Saruman laughed then as if he had heard my thoughts, “you had better leave Wormtongue with me you know, he is really not very nice. I wonder if you would be so gracious, so merciful if I were to tell you of the thoughts I plucked from his head about you Eomer?”

I moved at that, I think I tried to snatch at his belt knife but was kicked back. “No, Wormtongue is not very nice at all.”

“My offer holds.” Now that was unexpected. I could see Theoden swing round to chastise Eomer for speaking but surprisingly the dark man’s hand on his arm restrained him. “If Wormtongue wishes to leave, he can have safe passage with us. He has my word, he will not be harmed for past crimes in this realm.”

He was looking at me as he said it. Oh yes, I knew he was honourable and that he meant it, but I wondered how he intended to ensure his word was carried out. It didn’t matter though. After all I would rather die at the hands of an angry mob than spend even an hour in Barad Dur. The Rohirrim may be brave but they are not clever, and mobs are usually too impatient for blood to have the patience required for real pain. I half rose and Saruman saw my movement and turned swiftly.

“So snake you would slither away from me would you?” he raised his hand and I realised that he had not perhaps lost all his power with the breaking of his staff. I flung myself backward as the bolt of fire sprang towards me. I managed to escape the flame but I lost my footing on the steps and fell. In the awful silence I heard my wrist snap as I tried frantically to break my fall, and then the world went black.

I was not allowed to linger in that warm pain-free place for long however. An insistent shaking roused me and I looked up into a face far too beautiful to be human. I groaned, perhaps I had been too hasty, elves had had just as much time to perfect their arts as the orcs at Barad Dur. I had little doubt they would consider me much different from the orcs they hunted so fiercely. The face turned away to speak to someone behind.

“He’s alive, although I think he is injured”

“Of course he’s injured you fool elf, he fell down three flights of stone steps. No human could do that and stay in one piece” That growl must be the dwarf. Yes there he was, a squat hairy blur behind the blonde elf. “Humph, do better to slit his throat here and now, once a traitor always a traitor. I don’t doubt in the end you’d have done him a favour.”

He was probably right and I waited in resignation for the elf to do as he suggested. Instead, they both got up and moved away as the sound of familiar voices arguing came closer. Oh yes that was Eomer and his uncle. I recognised the tone of voice it was the same tone Theoden had used to his son and nephew in the early days when they had argued for more patrols and a more active defiance of the enemy in the south. He had not listened, falling back on the tired mantra that he was ruler not some young upstarts. It was one of the reasons it had been so easy to beguile him, to drive a wedge between them. He lost this argument though and I heard him turn away, barking orders in disgust at the troop.

“Can he stand?” Eomer did not come closer but tossed the query at the elf brusquely. The elf turned back to me and ran hard hands over my limbs.

“Nothing except his wrist appears broken,” he reached down and ungently hauled me to my feet.

I swayed but managed to stay upright. I suppose the correct thing to do in such circumstances is to draw yourself upright and if you cannot manage gratitude and loyalty to at least find some words of pride and defiance that you will walk unaided. Thankfully my self-preservation was far stronger than my pride and I leaned on the elf unashamedly. I even took a malicious pleasure from feeling him shrink away from me even as he supported my battered frame.

“Get him on a horse, he’ll have to ride double with one of my men.”

I remember little of the ride. It might only be my wrist that had snapped in the fall but my body had bruises from several days of beatings. In fact the broken wrist at first gave me some relief as its sharper pain distracted me from the insidious dull ache that was my whole body. By the time we made camp that night however, I was managing only to hold onto my determination not to shed tears by biting my lips until they bled.

I could not suppress a whimper however when the rider pushed me out of the saddle. My limbs were too stiff, too painful for me to do anything but tumble into an awkward heap. I lay there for some time as the sounds of the riders making camp ebbed and flowed around me. I had begun to think the elf would have indeed done me a kindness if he had slit my throat back at Isengard. I was so lost in misery and loathing that I almost didn’t realise when Eomer came and stood over me. The other was with him, the tall dark man whose name I had heard only once and swiftly forgotten.

It was him who spoke now, “it was a noble offer you made back there Eomer, but….”

“But foolish, is that not what you are going to say my friend?” Eomer’s tone was light and I suddenly hated them for discussing me like this as if I had no more importance than a stray whelp.

“Not foolish, misguided perhaps. We are still at war and in some respects Saruman was right, he has betrayed two masters already.”

“He is hardly in any state to betray anyone now Aragorn.” Eomer’s toe pushed at me.

‘Like some half dead beast,’ I thought bitterly.

“No, he looks like nothing so much as a collection of rags and broken sticks now.” That dismissing tone grated on me. “What will you do with him? You would still be entitled to put him to trial for the wrongs he did you and yours”

“I gave my word Aragorn and I do not give it lightly.”

“Then be careful my brother, for he is treacherous still.”

With that I heard the older man, Aragorn, move away. Eomer crouched down and studied me for several long moments. He reached out and I flinched away automatically. His mouth twisted. “Look at me Wormtongue.” His voice was harsh and slowly I raised my head to meet his eyes. He drew a breath in and I wondered what he saw that gave his features that look of horror and shock. Abruptly he stood and called out to one of his men.

“Clean him and bind his wrist,” he looked back at me. “And get him out of those clothes, I will not have him wearing the riches he stole from us any longer. Find him something else.”

They did in the end after much squabbling find me some old cast-offs. They were all reluctant to give me their own things until they stripped my robes and tunic from me and saw the bruises mottling my flesh. I confess they even made me draw breath. I had not fully seen the results of my master’s handiwork until now. New bruises from the fall overlaid the older harsher ones from the beating. Below those again were the marks of torment in the breeding pit, there was hardly an inch of skin that was not marked in some way. It was ugly beyond belief; the yellow and purples fading into browns, the red angry half-healed marks of burn and whip all marking pallid white flesh. It seemed to move them to some level of pity however even as they averted their eyes. The taunts stopped and they completed their task of washing me and binding my wounds. Finally pulling a tunic over my head with a roughness that spoke of a need to have those marks hidden, so they could go back to loathing me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers of the books may notice that I have cribbed some lines from the Scouring of the Shire here, I felt that really showed the relationship between Grima and Saruman. I also allowed Grima to express some of my thoughts on Gandalfs offer of mercy to Saruman. TO my way of thinking, Saruman has NO excuse for what he did, he was already very powerful and he did all this simply for more power. Grima on the other hand we know very little about, I tried to think of why someone would serve Saruman as Grima does, and found my clue in the extended scenes we get in the books. It is an obviously abusive master/slave relationship. That led me to think, what if you were born in Rohan, but with bandy legs, white skin, black hair. Nothing like the brave strong horsemen? What if you were poor, but intelligent. What if you were despised and mocked? what happens to you then, if you are driven away from your village? What happens if a wise wizard takes you in? And what happens when you are caught between two hatreds? hatred of those who drove you out, and hatred of the wizard who twisted you?


	5. Rain on the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How disappointing I think idly as I am – yet again, dragged away. Dear Eomer is not alone.

Late in the night we are passed over by a Nazgul, I had fallen into a deep if not restful sleep and in the confusion that followed it was only the overheard words of others that gave me any idea of what was going on.

Apparently one of the halflings had been allowed to pick up the Orthanc stone, stolen it away and looked into it. That appeared to be why the Nazgul had arrived so quickly, they had no doubt been sent by the dark lord to see what was happening. We had little sleep for the rest of the night although Theoden did not set out until first light. Gandalf had whisked the foolish little thing away. I really have no idea why men considered to be wise, would bring these halflings, little more than children in their height and their foolishness, on such a quest. From what I have learnt they have even sent one of them off with the ring of the enemy. I laugh to myself, in a few moments during the confusion of the night I had learnt tidings that would have amply recompensed Saruman for my failure at Edoras.

I can summon up no enthusiasm for the idea of returning to Orthanc and selling my knowledge though. No doubt it has already been outdated by more detailed tidings from Barad dur. Even if it had not, I cannot think of Orthanc without a shudder. No; bruised, cold and tired as I am, there is something liberating about finally being free, not just of Saruman but also of my role as the kings advisor. Ironic, really, that now when I am actually held as a prisoner I feel more free than at any other time in my life. For I am a prisoner, despite Eomer’s valiant offer of safe conduct. I think I am probably safer as a prisoner in the eyes of the Rohirrim than a free man.

Soon after the wizard has left us, the ranger and his companions leave also. He takes with him those few elves that survived the battle. We are riding to Gondor after him it would seem, although Theoden and Eomer need to first muster the full strength of the Rohirrim, a task that might prove more difficult than they had hoped.

………………………………

A day later we reach Dunharrow. Eowyn is unhappy because Eomer and Theoden have spent most of the ride ignoring her pleas to be allowed to ride with them when they set off for Gondor. By the time we have set up camp, I am wishing someone would slap her and point out that if she truly wants to be treated as a man, a soldier, then she ought to learn that the first rule is to obey your captains' orders. It is obvious that there is a need for someone to stay in Rohan, despite the victory for the Rohirrim at Helms Deep this land is far from safe and the people need leadership; they need to feel that their rulers have not deserted them.

These thoughts are interrupted rudely when Eowyn herself crosses my line of vision. I am crouched by one of the meaner fires on the outskirts of the camp. I am being left severely alone but still watched, mainly out of the corners of eyes. I wish they’d simply clap me in irons and have done with it. This uneasy status; half prisoner, half free man does not sit easily on any of us. Eowyn obviously has few doubts about where I should be. Her mouth twists in disgust as she hisses my name. I take my time raising my head to look at her, it is a small thing but it makes me feel less vulnerable to make her wait.

“Your Highness?”

“Get up worm, my brother wishes to see you.”

Oh that hurt didn’t it, my lady. You have been sent away and I am summoned. I can tell that she is hoping I have been summoned to face some form of revenge. No doubt she would call it justice but wish ardently in her heart that she might be the one to exact a bloody price from me. Truth be told I am not so certain myself that Eomer will not have given in to his uncle’s and sister’s anger and decided to take back his word.

I get up slowly, it would be an attempt to annoy Eowyn still further but as I begin to rise I realise that my injuries leave me little choice but to make every movement as slow as possible.

She looks me over in disgust and flinches away when I step closer. Turning on her heel she would have flounced off without a word but I call after her, “Your highness, I do not know the way to your brothers' tent.”

She turns back and with the amount of hatred in her eyes I wonder for a moment if she knows more of what has passed between Eomer and myself than I had supposed. I shake the thought away – I cannot imagine that she ever crept close enough to discover my private bolthole. Eowyn opens her mouth but then closes it with a sharp snap and motions instead for one of the Rohirrim. “Take him to my brother and the king”

How disappointing I think idly as I am – yet again, dragged away. Dear Eomer is not alone.

The oaf pushes me unceremoniously into the tent, and unsurprisingly I stumble and fall flat on my face. I land on my wrist, which despite a crude bandage hasn’t been set, and the pain is excruciating. When my head clears I realise that Eomer is bent over me shaking my shoulder. The lamps have been lit although it is not yet full dark outside, and the flickering light for a moment gives Eomer’s face a ghastly set of shadows. Then the draft dies and the light settles into a warmer yellow glow around his hair and mail.

“Wormtongue; Grima, get up.”

I try, but roll my eyes as another bout of pain lances through me. “I am trying, your Highness, or did you think I enjoyed rolling around on the floor.”

He grunts at that and reaching down effortlessly hauls me to my feet, “at least your tongue seems to be in one piece.” He curses as he catches my injured wrist and I double over again. “Haven’t you had the sense to get that seen to?” he barks.

I finally manage to stand up but he doesn’t release me instead he looks me over an expression of disgust growing on his face.

“For gods sake, Worm, couldn’t you find anything better than this?” he tugs at the cast-off clothing I am wearing.

I pull away, suddenly unreasonably annoyed at his questioning. “I wasn’t given a choice, your Highness. Somehow my usual sources of clothing and food seem to have disappeared,” I sneer the words but I know it is a thin defence. I look pathetic and broken, a sentiment echoed by Theoden.

“I do not like this Eomer, look at him! How can you say that he can help us? This miserable snake has betrayed us once and now you bring him here. In this state?”

“I’ll find something else for you later,” he mutters. Grabbing my arm – thankfully the uninjured one, he leads me over to the table. “He’s the only person who can help us sire, after all he’s the one responsible for this mess.”

I lean over the table ignoring the angry looks I am getting from Theoden. There is a map spread out and I recognise it as one of the ones I used to hand over to Theodred when he demanded it.

“We have two more days to muster the Rohirrim who have been stationed on the borders ….” Theoden’s voice trails of as he looks in confusion at the map and I suppress a snicker. The problem is obvious, even without my misdirection and outright lies about where Eoreds had been stationed, neither Eomer or Theoden has the knowledge necessary to organise this muster. Theoden left all such matters to his son and Gamling even before I had infiltrated Meduseld

Eomer, unfortunately, seems to be brighter than I remembered for he catches my smirk and turns to face me. “A bargain, worm, serve us in this – gather the Rohirrim to our standard to answer the call of our allies and once it is over – you are free to go, if you still wish it.”

A splutter from Theoden, “you would bargain with this wretch?”

“Why uncle, if you believe you can gain his assistance any other way I invite you to try, but I doubt any man who survived the tender mercies of the white wizard would tell us much under torture.”

That is almost too far my golden princeling I think as I watch Theoden’s face, but apparently Theoden has learnt humility in the past few days. He almost visibly restrains himself from slapping this impudent puppy down but restrain himself he does.

Eomer’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder and he steers me towards a portion of the map, pushing a handful of counters into my uninjured hand. I clutch the wooden pieces fiercely, concentrating on that small pain to dull the edge of the larger pains.

“Where are the Eoreds stationed?” he asks.

It is such a simple request without threat or promise behind it, asked as one would ask idly on a summer’s day, ‘where is the cool wine stored?’. Without thinking I lean forward to place the counters on the map outlining the furthest edge and the mountain paths. It is only when I look up and see the fierce grin of triumph on Eomer’s face that I realise what I have done so easily at a mere word form him.

I step back from the table and already they appear to have forgotten me. Discussing the best routes, the fastest riders to send to call the Rohirrim to muster. I stumble over to a campstool and collapse into it uncaring of whether anyone sees me. I am so tired now the voices begin to sound like the meaningless calling of birds and despite -or perhaps because of- the pain I am nearly drifting away on a tide of black peaceful silence.

A few minutes? hours? later I am jerked back into the brighter harsher world by loud voices. Eomer and Theoden are disagreeing again, and, this is interesting, Gamling has joined them. Not interesting – worrying, when have I ever slept so deeply as to be unaware of anyone entering a room I was in? I shake my head to clear it and try to catch their words.

“We must take them over the west pass, that is the quickest route.”

“We have not enough grain and provisions to feed the men we have let alone those we hope will come. The dammed orcs burnt as they came.”

I pull myself up to consciousness and clear my throat, “the west pass is blocked” it comes out as little more than a whisper and no one hears me. I try again and this time Eomer turns round.

“What was that, Grima do you know something more?” he strides over and hauls me out of the chair, I wince and totter clinging onto him as my legs refuse to function. He makes a frustrated noise and picks me up bodily by the scruff of the neck, almost like a stray whelp. Dumping me on a rickety campstool by the map table he places his hand, hot and heavy, on the back of my neck. “Show us,” he commands.

Coughing as the sudden movement takes its toll on my battered body I huddle into myself for a moment trying to gather my wits and think of what to tell them. Then I look up at the unfriendly and mistrustful faces and sigh. The only thing I can do is tell them everything. I reach out to trace a line over the mountains. “The west pass is blocked, I sent orcs there over a week ago. You have at least two Eoreds trapped on the other side of a landslide. They can’t clear it from that side.” I watch as my skinny finger moves across to a spot further up nearer to Isengard. It’s strange I muse, as my voice carries on, clearer and more confident now. I can betray my master without a second thought. And it isn’t anything to do with the bruises that are causing my breath to come short and my body to hunch. It is something as simple as being finally allowed to do something useful with the information I have hoarded.

“There is a store of food, grain mainly and some meat although that might have been taken or spoilt by now, here.” my finger stabs down at a spot some ten leagues from us. “They didn’t burn everything, and some of the grain was diverted before it even reached Edoras”

Theoden’s face went red with anger, “my people starved because of this you miserable worm. How will you answer to the mothers who watched their children cry……..”

He would have gone on evidently but was interrupted by Eomer who was frowning over the map with Gamling at his side. “Can we redirect any of the riders to here to pick up supplies on the way to the muster?”

Ignoring Theoden, I start to explain the routes and work out, with Gamling mainly, the best and quickest way to get all the riders here on time and with as much food as possible. We redirect some of the wagons of refugees via the hidden stocks of food.

About half an hour later judging by the candle flames we are finished.

“Good, that makes this something more than an impossible idea. We might even pull it off now as long as everything goes as we planned it” Gamling pushes away the maps with a grunt and goes to pour wine from the flagon nearby, he brings two back for Theoden and Eomer first and then to my surprise I find one pushed in front of me. I look up and find an almost identical look of surprise in his eyes, for a moment it would seem Gamling had forgotten who he was working with.

I take the wine eagerly however, I care little why it is there only that it will warm me and ease the pain for a little while at least. I bury myself in the cup as Theoden mutters something to Eomer and then pulling himself upright with a loud harrumph and an obvious ignoring of my presence he leaves the tent. Gamling follows and I shrink closer to the table waiting for Eomer to summon the guards to drag me back. I am half way through the wine when Eomer’s hand on my wrist startles me into spilling the dark liquid.

“Have they fed you yet?” he questions roughly, “you’re of no use to me half starved and drunk”

I look up, I know my fatigue must show on my face but the wine and the pain and the total hopelessness of my situation mean I am almost past caring, with him at least. He grunts and walks over to the tent flap to bark orders. Bringing his head back inside he stands hands planted on hips and regards my huddled form for a moment. With a snort he walks back over to the table and starts rolling up the map. He doesn’t even look up when the guard comes back in, “make sure you don’t let him get away,” he says as I am unceremoniously but not roughly hauled to my feet.

………….

Cold, I hate the cold, my naked form shivers and I hunch over wrapping my arms around myself trying to preserve warmth although all thoughts of modesty are long gone. Hands probe me again and I shiver and wince. Then a splash of cold water nearly makes me cry out from the bitter chill. I am still shivering when I am handed clothing and commanded to dress myself, shivering when they realise I am incapable of doing so and roughly pull the clothes on me.

Someone bends over me and I flinch and grovel instinctively, they spit in disgust but their hands are firm not callous as my wrist is quickly and efficiently bound. At the same time, I am given some stew that I attempt to eat one-handed, the bowl balanced awkwardly on my knees. The voices and people surrounding me dissipate and I finish the stew leaning my head back and almost drifting into sleep. That is not to be allowed however, I am dragged to my feet again and prodded through the camp to the tent.

Once inside I blink, the lights are dimmer now only a single set of candles on the table where Eomer still sits looking over papers. He looks up and points to another stool. I limp across and sit down carefully. There is a long silence as I watch the candle flame flicker and muse on how the light gilds Eomer’s skin to gold whereas it casts shadows onto my face.

Then Eomer pushes back his chair and looks up at me, his eyes run over me critically as if assessing a horse, “how badly are you hurt?” he asks abruptly, his eyes linger on my wrist, “is that broken?”

I suppress a wince at the memory of that awful cracking sound, “it would appear so,” I say wryly.

Humph,” he stands and walks round pulling me to my feet, “anything else? I can’t see any bandages”

I look away unable to answer, I can walk and talk what more does he need to know. He won’t take this for an answer however and runs a hard hand down my body. I stiffen and bite my lip as his touch brushes against painful areas. “Ribs maybe but nothing else, good. We haven’t time to wait for you to mend totally.”

I sigh and glance back over to the maps it sounds as if it is going to be long night. I am still thinking this when I am pushed back towards the bed and it is only when it catches the back of my knees forcing me to sprawl in an ungainly fashion on it that I realise why I am here.

He looms over me and I swallow, it is still there both the lust and the need to punish. It could be a knife at my throat or in my belly - a long and painful death. But this time it is not, this time at least he is kneeling above me pulling open his breeches and then tugging the clothing I have been given out of the way.

It is awkward, and painful. He turns me onto my belly and I freeze there, memories of Orthanc too fresh in my mind to allow for anything but sheer terror to pervade my mind. But then his weight shifts, a hand runs idly down my back, as if soothing a nervous colt and then he grasps my hair and turns my head out of the pillow. He is half kneeling on the edge of the bed his form blocking out the light. His hand rests on my buttocks and I cannot prevent a flinch. He frowns and I cower, that provokes a harsh curse and he reaches over, bringing the lamp closer. I feel the warmth fall on my exposed skin and I cringe, wanting to turn away from the pitiless light. Eomer studies my body for a moment, the hand moves up over my skin again and then he is gone the lamp swinging wild shadows as it is set down on the table.

When he returns in the blessed half light he allows me to turn my face away as he breaches my body. My face is soaked with tears by the time a third finger is pushed into me and I wonder with the distant part of my brain that is not screaming with the pain of being split in two, how it is that I still find this so painful – had I not heard men compare a virgin of either sex favourably for tightness, wasn’t this supposed to get easier?

My thoughts are overturned when he finds some angle, some spot deep inside me that makes my head spin, and while I am still gasping and shaking he is in me. And gods but he is big, and hot and heavy lying atop me now.” I struggle for breath and nearly cry out when he shifts and thrusts deeper, but then he groans and lays his head against my heaving shoulders.

“So tight, little snake” he says harshly.

He lies still for several long moments and finally my body begins to relax, it recognises the dim yellow light of the lamp, the soft feeling of furs under me, the heavy warmth of a strong body atop me. None of these bear any resemblance to Orthanc and so my mind lets go of its memories, and I feel my body begin to stir at last. He shifts slightly and my breath catches in my throat as I suddenly realise with startling clarity that I am here, in his bed, that it is Eomer who is buried inside me. A vision of his naked, sweat sheened body flashes before my eyes and I am instantly hard, my body betraying me as my hips shift restlessly.

He laughs wryly - a faint huff of air against my neck, “eager now are we?”

And that is all the time I am given to accustom myself to this. His thrusts are hard, pounding into my weak body and I can do nothing but ride out the storm.

………………….

He was surprisingly gentle I muse afterwards, I doubt I would sit a horse easily but then given my other hurts I was unlikely to be able to do that in any ease anyway. It was quick and rough but his hand was on me and a flask of oil for harnesses eased the initial entrance. Lying still half pinned under his weight I chuckle to myself bitterly, if it had not been for the still healing marks of the Orc breeding pit no doubt I would have even found pleasure in it. Oh I had spilt, I could do little less, held beneath him, his cock impaling me and his rough hand wrapped around me. I had gasped and shuddered in my ungainly fashion spilling warm seed over his hand even as he muffled his cry of completion into the teeth marks he’d left on my shoulder.

His breathing eases and with a groan he hauls himself off me and rolls over, flinging one hand across his eyes. I pull myself together slowly and roll to the far edge of the bed curled into a ball. For a long time there is no sound or movement, then when I think he must be asleep I try to slide out of the bed suppressing my winces. I am half sitting on the edge trying to persuade my body to make the required movements to stand up and at least leave the bed if not the tent when a hand latches onto my good wrist and pulls me back down.

I lie there in the dark listening to him breathe, I am still lying on the far side of the camp bed, and he has now fallen asleep for he snores faintly I could leave easily, but I will not leave him, not now.


End file.
